


raw meat = blood drool

by Anonymous



Category: Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Sibling Incest, Unsatisfying orgasm, knee grinding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22789168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Thorgil invents a tradition.
Relationships: Thorgil/Olmar (Vinland Saga)
Kudos: 4
Collections: Anonymous





	raw meat = blood drool

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after they get back to the farm from Jelling. @ vincestsaga on twitter for more brocontent!

He needs space to think. That's the reason Olmar's here in this dark shed that's already been stripped bare of anything that could serve as armor or weaponry. Men don't run away while everyone else is getting ready for battle. They don't need to hide from what's about to happen.

"Forgetting that rush already?"

Olmar cringes a little. Of course it would be Thorgil who found him. For a second it's pitch black in the shed as his brother's body blocks out the entrance, and then he steps through, followed by the light. Olmar's not sure if it's the light that makes him reach up to shield his eyes.

"I was just..." Standing up from the crate he's been sitting on, Olmar looks around desperately for anything he might have found interesting. He's only been in here a few minutes. It's like Thorgil sniffed him out or something. "I was making sure they didn't miss anything in here."

"Oh, I know how it is. You think nothing else could ever feel that good again, right? Gets you down in the dumps. You see it all the time on the battlefield. But trust me—" Thorgil presses him closer to the wall— "it only gets better."

"Um, I... wasn't..." Olmar leans uncomfortably to his left, trying to send a hint. He knows there's no pushing his brother off.

But, in the back of his mind, he also knows Thorgil never takes a hint he doesn't want to.

"Know what we do in the army when some poor newbie gets the blues?" Thorgil's beard scrapes his forehead, thick and rough.

"This, you mean?" Olmar can see how Thorgil getting up in your face would scare you into doing a good job. But it's not like _he_ needs reminding what the stakes are. His brother could have a little confidence in that, at least.

"Well, we toss him a woman, usually." Thorgil's laugh sounds uglier than usual, up against his ear here in the dark. "But I wouldn't wanna take any of the ladies here away from their work. And looking around at the men—I'd say I'm your best option."

Olmar's starting to feel really weird. Like whatever this is isn't going to go so well for him. "I-I'm fine. Really. I'm just thinking."

"Well, there's your problem! Nobody asked you to do that."

"I'm getting myself ready," Olmar says. "For..." The word sticks in his throat. He's said it so many times in his life. He's heard it, and thought it, and wanted it, and now it won't come.

"The more thinking you do before battle, the less you can do once it starts. So just _stop._ _Thinking._ " Thorgil barely has to lift his knee to grind it into Olmar's crotch.

The sound Olmar lets out doesn't mean _Stop_ or _Let go of me_. It's barely even one of surprise. If he's shocked, or confused, it's just a reflexive response. He doesn't feel much of either. This makes as much sense as anything else in the past week. It's just the kind of sound that comes out on its own, when your older brother jams his knee between your legs. Maybe someone else would know if there's a special word for that.

"Let's see some excitement, already!" Thorgil doesn't skip a beat. All of this comes naturally to him. Everything Olmar stumbles over, everything he doesn't see coming. "Just think about it. Our own private war, delivered right to your home."

For a few long moments, it seems impossible that anything exists outside the shed. Outside this point of contact between him and his brother that doesn't seem like it should exist, but it does, so what does he know. Then Olmar summons, with an effort, the recollection that there's a world out there. Waiting for him.

"Do you think I really belong on the frontlines?"

"That's up to you, isn't it?" His brother's words come easily, with none of the strain Olmar's felt these last days every time he tries to arrange his thoughts. "Just remember, there aren't gonna be any more happy accidents. Nobody wants to let you win this time. Nobody's looking out for you, except me. You take in what I have to offer, or you die."

His knee grinds in circles, not quite crushing Olmar's cock into his balls, but squishing, definitely. Olmar can't imagine this cheering anybody up. Or getting them psyched up to kill a man for the second time. It just makes him feel slow and stupid. For a week now, everything about him has felt like that. His cock can't decide if it's feeling pain or pleasure, and the unfamiliar smell of his own brother is making the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

"Look around you. Even Dad's starting to feel that old fire again!"

Their dad's impossible to recognize. He's not mad at Olmar, for once—he barely notices Olmar's there. It's the king he's furious at. Nobody's mad at Olmar. Nobody but Thorgil was there for the whole thing, and Thorgil's happy. As far as he's concerned, Olmar finally did something right.

Olmar's known, ever since he was born, that his brother is a little more _like this_ than anybody else he knows. Maybe he gets it from Dad—Dad the way he used to be when he was young, Dad the way he's been since they came ashore. 

Maybe—he squirms thinking about it; he doesn't want anybody to find out it might be true—maybe Dad was just different in that space when Olmar was born. Maybe there was no chance he could've ever been like Iron Fist Ketil, because Iron Fist isn't his father. Maybe it's just Ketil the farmer who made Olmar.

The squirm presses him up into Thorgil's knee, gentler than anything his brother's done so far, and the sudden pleasure is enough to make him gasp. Thorgil chuckles, his breath hot on the tip of Olmar's ear. He's enjoying this, too. There's no way anyone had to do this to him before his second kill. The arms on either side of Olmar, holding him in without touching him—he's not going to try getting away, but if he did, those arms—he doesn't know what would happen to him.

Heat radiates into him, hotter than the blood speeding through his own body. Thorgil's chest is level with his face, and with his head bent, not trying to hide his face but he just can't look up—with his head bent all Olmar can see in the dark is the broadness of his brother's chest stretching out into those arms. The knee in his crotch moves not gentle or rough, but firm, massaging all the tension in his body down into one point that feels warm and cool at once. Thorgil's chin brushes the top of his head, sniffing out the blood sticking in his hair.

No. The blood's gone, he washed it out of his hair a week ago before they even got on the boat. He changed his clothes when they got home. What did Thorgil _smell_ , then, how did he find him in here?

"Let 'em drop, already, kid." Thorgil's knee nearly lifts him off the ground. Olmar feels his balls crushing up into him and the air squeaks out of him like a punctured pig's bladder. "It's long past time." 

"I know," Olmar says, his voice a thin whine. His heels hit the floor again and he tries to collect himself, sound more confident. It doesn't feel like he succeeds at either. "I know I have to see this through."

"Just as long as we understand each other." Thorgil's knee goes back to where it was, not letting up completely, but letting Olmar's weight droop back to the floor.

Olmar's cock is still hard. He can't understand why that is. Usually when he's stressed out, it gets impossible to keep it up, and he can't think about fucking or anything because he gets distracted. And now, when he's more stressed than he's ever been, it's staying stiff no matter what he thinks about. He doesn't know exactly how things work down there, all he knows is the heart pumps blood, and his heart's pumping and pounding and nothing can make it slow down.

The pressure from Thorgil's knee feels gentle now, in comparison. Olmar stands, fists pressed against the wall behind him, and lets the blood pound between his legs and not through his head, his brother penning him in on all sides. He stops thinking long enough to grind back a little, long enough to swear and make some noise, and the climax doesn't leave him as empty as he'd hoped. Everything's still there inside his head, just more tired and frustrated.

He stares down at himself when Thorgil finally steps back, trying to see if he can get hard enough to try for a real orgasm, but even in the dim light he can see—and feel—his prick's done for now.

"What're you waiting for, a kiss? Dad's right, you're still a kid on the inside." Thorgil claps him on the shoulder and doesn't lift his hand off for a few seconds. Two weeks ago Olmar would've died, practically, to have his brother clap him on the shoulder or the back. "Well, today's a good day for that to end."

"Do you think..." Again the words feel frozen. His _thoughts_ feel frozen; Olmar doesn't know what's going to come out of his own mouth. "Do you think I could've..."

"Think about it like this." Thorgil tugs him toward the door, impatient. He can't wait to get back to the real world. He never let Olmar feel _his_ crotch, or get a good look at it, but it doesn't matter. If he's hard, it's from thinking about the next few days. "Every day this goes on is the first day of the rest of your life."

(That's what he's afraid of.)

Thorgil would never, in a million years, tell him _No, you didn't have to do what you did._ It's always his brother Olmar sees when he's wondering what to do, even if it's just the shape of Thorgil's broad back and shoulders. He always thought that someday, that would be enough to change things. That the fear would go away.

Following Thorgil on unsteady legs, Olmar blinks as his eyes readjust to the light. His brother doesn't turn to look at him, but he stays in his wake anyway, because there's no one else to follow. Because men don't run away while everyone else is preparing for battle. They don't get to hide from what they've started.


End file.
